


The Man on the Paper

by Ilrona



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Artist Kylo Ren, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8692939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilrona/pseuds/Ilrona
Summary: Kylo Ren paints. Hux finds this out when he sees a landscape of Starkiller Base on Ren's wall, and when Hux mentions that Ren probably isn’t very good at painting humans, Ren decides to prove Hux wrong. He will paint a human – and not just any human: he will paint Hux.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I already have two fics where Kylo paints ([the first](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7502604) and [the second one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7814071)), but those are Modern AUs, and I thought it would be fun to write a story which takes place in the canon universe where Kylo is an artist.

Hux frowns at the painting on Ren’s wall.

It’s Starkiller Base: white snow, pale sky, dark pines, the top of an antenna in the right corner. Most of the image is white or black, but there are shades of brown on the trees, shades of pale blue on the snow, green ivy on a few pine trees. This vibrant green looks artificial. How can a plant be so green, so  _alive_  on this freezing, empty planet? What is the point of this fragile plant’s verdant beauty in the lifeless landscape of a weapon?

Maybe it’s only a whimsical invention of the painter. Hux has no idea who that could be. But he can imagine Ren threatening some poor engineer to paint this for him, or die with Ren’s lightsaber in their chest.

Hux feels warm lips on the nape of his neck, which is completely exposed now without his uniform. Two big hands on his waist, then their bodies meet, pressed chest to back.

Hux doesn’t melt into the touch, and he doesn’t pull away. He continues staring at the landscape.

“Have a holoposter instead, Ren. That would have many different landscapes, and you could change it whenever you felt like it. What’s the point of this primitive thing? The First Order has the best technology in the galaxy, and though I hate spending our money on frivolous luxuries, we could afford one decoration for one of our commanders.”

“This isn’t decoration. This painting helps me practice how to use the Force.”

“Looking at a picture?”

“Not just looking. I painted it.”

Ren must sense Hux’s incredulity, because he starts to explain:

“The Force is everywhere. It can feel and touch every atom in the galaxy. However, though I’m one of the most powerful Force-users, even my senses are limited. I can’t experience everything like the Force can. But I can try to become better. While painting this picture, I had to notice and focus on all the little details I would have ignored otherwise. When I look at it now, I can recall the strange understanding that filled me while I painted, and I can once again feel the Force that trembles in the pines, that shivers in the snowflakes, that caresses the helpless little bug trying to find some food on the antenna – it caresses the antenna too, though it’s not part of nature but civilization. But that doesn’t matter to the Force, which embraces and understands everything that exists.”

Ren’s words and serious, awed tone make Hux wonder whether the Force really is something more than a power that can move objects and read minds. Hux knows Kylo Ren, which means he accepts the existence of the Force, but he doubts it’s as sentient and omnipresent as Ren seems to believe. How could that be possible?

“What does the Force think about Starkiller?” Hux is curious what Ren will answer. “About the destruction our weapon will unleash?”

Hux can’t see Ren’s face, but he can feel the fingers on his waist twitch: maybe nervously, maybe excitedly, maybe just a simple reaction of the body as unrelated to any thought or feeling as a sneeze is.

“It’s impressed. The Force is eternal, it has existed before everything else and will exist when everything else is gone, yet it has never seen such power before – and I doubt it ever will again.”

Hux feels a shiver run down his spine – Ren, so close to him, can probably feel it too.

Hux doesn’t care about the Force’s opinion, but Ren’s words are true. Dreadful, incredible, glorious Starkiller is an unparalleled wonder: Hux knows about the Death Star, of course he does, and that was a wonder too, but the First Order’s weapon is so much  _more_  and  _better_.

The Death Star could not prevent the fall of the Empire. But Starkiller will ensure that the First Order will remain victorious forever. The first battle against the New Republic will be the last: every planet in the galaxy will understand that they have no choice but to join the First Order after they see the terrible destruction of the Hosnian system. The First Order can carve a planet’s core out and force the power of suns inside it to obliterate other planets! Who would dare to oppose the First Order? They will rule everything, like the Empire but even better, undefeatable till the end of time, with Hux sitting on the throne of the galaxy…

“Was the ivy really there?” Hux asks, before he could get too lost thinking about the future.

“Yes. The ground there was warm. I think there was a hot spring near it, or something like that. The ivy had these very small flowers, but they were green too, so they can’t be seen on the painting. I took some of the flowers and they smelled sweet. But they withered very quickly.”

Hux looks at the painting. He doesn’t like cold climates, but he could get used to anything. He could have a home there, after he becomes the Emperor, not the main base, just a small palace hidden in the snow. It would be poetic: they would have their home on the planet that made it possible for the First Order, for Hux, to govern the galaxy. Ren would be there too. Together they would find the hidden hot spring that makes the ivy so green, and the walls of the palace would be covered with Ren’s landscapes. They would figure out how to stop the withering of the ivy’s flowers, and the house would smell sweet all the time (the Finalizer doesn't smell like anything, and when it very rarely does, it's never a pleasant smell). If they have the technology to use a sun to destroy planets they will find a way to keep little flowers alive.

“I like your painting,” Hux says. He can't admit his plans to Ren. Not yet. And it's likely the planet would become too dangerous to live on after firing the weapon, anyway. This is just a silly fantasy. “I like that it’s… realistic. I mean, the perspective doesn’t seem off, and it’s very detailed. You’re a good painter.”

A hand grabs his chin, and Ren turns his face so he can kiss Hux, whispering into his open mouth: “Thank you.”

* * *

Hux had been aware of Ren’s occasional travels to Starkiller Base before finding out about Ren’s painting. He had even known that they have something to do with the Force: maybe it’s easier to meditate on the huge, almost completely uninhabited planet, without the 82000 different minds of the Finalizer distracting Ren. Or maybe the Force is different on Starkiller Base than in space, like the composition of the air or magnetic field lines are different on every planet.

He had also thought that Ren practices fighting. It’s obviously better for the First Order’s budget if Ren obliterates pine trees instead of practice droids with his lightsaber, and it’s better for everyone on the Finalizer if Ren doesn’t accidentally blow a hole into the ship’s hull with the Force. He can blow up as many mountains as he wants on the planet – as long, of course, as they’re not near important parts of the weapon, but luckily Ren is never too close to First Order structures on Starkiller Base.

Hux knows, both because of the lack of panicking reports about Ren’s dark presence and because of the occasional (very, very rare) glances at his datapad, at the little red dot on the map that shows where Ren is. Not because Hux worries about Ren: there’s nothing on the planet that is more dangerous than Kylo Ren, except the planet itself. But Hux finds the little red dot amusing, even a little endearing: such a simple representation of this wild, bizarre man.

“Is there a cave where you sleep when you’re on Starkiller Base?” Hux wonders now. The question is inane and silly, but here in bed, in these secret moments between sex and sleep, lips still tingling from Ren’s demanding kisses, he’s allowed to ask a few inane and silly questions. It won’t harm him.

Ren looks very offended. “What do you think I am, a Jedi in exile? I sleep in my shuttle.”

Hux imagines the black Upsilon-class shuttle on Starkiller Base: a dark blot on the white wasteland, crouching like a huge, ominous bird of prey. Ren leaves it, and there’s silence around him, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of the fresh snow under his feet.

He tries to imagine Ren painting, his bare hand never shaking despite the freezing air nipping at it all day, a few specks of bright green paint on his fingers like the blood of an animal from some alien planet. Or does he paint in his black gloves? Surely he must at least take his helmet off. The cold air would turn his pale cheeks red and his red lips blue. His breath would be visible, and he would have to squint at first until he gets used to the white bright sky and the even whiter and brighter snow.

“Don’t you want to paint something else?” When Ren just looks at him with raised eyebrows, Hux continues. “Like animals or people. Or self-portraits. Self-portraits are great. Many years ago, when I was only a lieutenant, I visited an exhibition of self-portraits on Arkanis with my father’s wife, Maratelle. Everyone on their portrait was serious and unsmiling, very dignified and important. I liked that. But I hated the ones with fancy jewelry or expensive furs or lace-scarves. They reminded me of the awful adornments of the loathsome senators of the New Republic, outfits that cost more than what most of the poor Outer Rim planets the Senate doesn’t care about have. Maratelle seemed amused by my outburst, though of course she agreed about the Senate. She explained that these decorations on the self-portraits are meant to prove the wealth and enhance the beauty of the artist. She told me that there are holos of many of the artists, and that most of them were actually uglier, which I think is–”

“Did you just imply that I’m ugly?”

“ _What_?”

“You said that those artists painted pictures where they looked prettier than they actually were, and before that you said I should paint a self-portrait.”

Hux snorts.

“I don’t imply. If I hate someone or something, I express my feelings very clearly.” Well, he can’t always tell the Supreme Leader what he really thinks, and sometimes he isn’t completely honest with his father, but those are the exceptions. Does Ren think he’s a cowardly sycophant who doesn’t dare to be straightforward and has to  _imply_  instead? “Ren, I don’t think you’re ugly. Sure, the first time I saw you I wasn’t sure what to make of your face, but it’s not bad. It has a certain unusual charm, even.” A sudden thought raises its head in Hux’s mind, and he frowns at Ren. “Do  _you_  think you are ugly?”

“The dark side of the Force isn’t vain. Many Sith Lords looked awful, but it didn’t matter, because they were very powerful. I hide my face behind my helmet because of the memory of Darth Vader, and because I want to frighten those that look at me and my actual face looks too young and harmless. I don’t even show my face to the world, Hux. Why would I want to  _paint_  it?”

Hux shrugs, then yawns. He must get up earlier than usual tomorrow to look through the training simulation results of the members of the FN Corps so he will be able to discuss it with Captain Phasma after lunch. The original plan was to do it this evening, but Ren filled his evening instead with his sloppy, irresistible kisses and big, amazing body.

Hux can’t paint. But he can draw blueprints and write and perform speeches very well. He has also written a few poems about the glory of the Empire during his teenage years, which he used to think were amazing but now he knows they’re middling at best and lack the rousing strength of his speeches, though he still enjoys the poems of better poets. He could never paint something like the landscape on Ren’s wall. Not just because paint seems messy and unpleasant, but because he would think: what is the fucking point? What does it matter how many trees are on that hill, or what is the exact color of the snow under the shadow of that tall pine? He has more important things to do.

“You probably couldn’t paint humans, anyway,” Hux mutters, his last words before sleep. After all, some artists are good at humans, others, like Ren, at landscapes, or animals, or those ridiculous still-life things… But nobody can be good at everything.

His eyes are already closed when Ren’s quiet but very determined voice tells him:

“I can paint humans. I need to practice first, but I can do it. I can do anything, Hux.”

* * *

“I’m painting you.”

Hux almost chokes on the tasteless, unappetizingly yellowish puree.

“What? Why me?”

“Who else? I know you more than anyone else.”

Is Ren talking about sex? Hux hopes Ren isn’t painting something obscene. Fine, Hux also quite likes how Ren looks while they are fucking, he has come more than once into his own hand while thinking about Ren panting, dizzy with pleasure, that amazing sultry mouth, his tongue sliding out to wet his lower lip, the dark curls clinging to his cheeks. But it’s one thing to paint such an image onto the canvas of one’s mind, intangible and ephemeral, and quite another to paint it onto an actual physical object.

“It’s not finished yet,” Ren continues. He isn’t eating with Hux: he told Hux when he arrived that he already had eaten before coming to Hux’s quarters. He isn’t missing out on much, Hux thinks as he cuts himself a bite of what is either meat or a very tough vegetable. “I haven’t even started it. I now stare at holoimages of you and practice painting your face. The proportion of your features, the shape of your lips, the distance between your eyes, between your eyes and the tip of your nose… It’s more difficult than I thought it would be.”

“My face is not difficult, Ren. It’s a normal face.”

“Which is why it’s very hard to make it perfect. Even the smallest mistake can ruin it.”

“You don’t have to do it if it takes too much time. I wouldn’t want you to be distracted from your duty and training.”

Ren outright laughs at him. Hux grits his teeth at the unpleasant sound (it isn’t this unpleasant when Ren laughs while Hux talks about the foolish statutes of the New Republic or the bad decisions that lead to a Rebel loss back when the Empire was still glorious and alive). He forces another spoonful of puree into his mouth and chews more aggressively than needed for the already very soft food.

“Nothing could distract me from my duty and training, General. Nothing could stop me from wanting to become better, to get closer to the Dark. But I do have some free time. And painting is good for me. You know I’m not a patient man. I get frustrated very quickly if something doesn't go my way, and my emotions sometimes get the better of me. I’m not sure I can ever get rid of this weakness, though I hope that with time and the Supreme Leader’s guidance I will succeed one day. Painting helps: it teaches me that I have to accept that I will make a lot of mistakes before I can create something perfect. And if I don’t do this, that means I give up, which means that I’m not good enough, that I’m a failure. I’m not a failure, Hux.”

Most would think they’re complete opposites, but they do have a few things in common: the most important is that they refuse to give anything up. They don’t believe in impossible missions: they either succeed or continue fighting until they die. The Force and the Commandant father do count, Hux can’t deny that, but  _this_  is the main reason they are the commanders of one of the greatest ships of the First Order at such a young age.

“Let me kiss you,” Ren says later, once Hux is done washing his teeth: now his mouth tastes like cold water and the very strong, slightly bitter toothpaste everyone on the Finalizer uses, but Ren licks into his mouth as if he just had the most delicious dessert in the galaxy. Hux kisses back eagerly, arms around Ren’s broad shoulders. “Maybe if I learn the shape of your lips with my own lips my hands too will learn how to paint you.”

* * *

Months pass.

They don’t talk about the painting, not even once. Maybe Ren has decided the portrait demands too much of his time and energy without helping him become more powerful, or maybe he has simply forgotten about it – either way, Ren likely isn’t working on it anymore.

But maybe he is. Because sometimes Ren stares at Hux for a long time, too intense, too much, examining, learning.

On the bridge Hux occasionally feels eyes crawling all over his face like imaginary insects, but he can’t be sure because when he turns towards Ren all he finds is the mask.

But he  _knows_  Ren is staring at him after sex. Hux can barely resist the temptation of trying to hide his face into the pillow or against Ren’s shoulder. It would be cowardly, childish even, but he is so aware of his chaotically messy hair, the blush still on his face.

Sometimes Ren stares at him while they’re sitting next to each other: Hux reading reports or news on his datapad while Ren is studying ancient Sith legends or some other scholarly thing related to the dark side of the Force. Ren glances up from his flimsiplasts, and his eyes find Hux’s face and stay there. Hux feels that heavy stare, the weight of those powerful brown eyes almost like a rough caress, an affectionate grip. Hux wants to turn away from the eyes that feel as dangerous as a blaster bolt, wants to flee, his body hot and weak.

But he’s stronger than that, and he can control his body so much that it doesn’t even twitch.

One day, Ren gives him a piece of paper: the portrait of Hux.

It’s not a painting, but a colorless drawing. This surprises Hux even before he can find out how the drawing portrays him.

The features resemble Hux very accurately: the shape of his lips, nose, eyebrows, chin, cheekbones, forehead – after months of practice, everything is perfect.

But the man on the paper doesn’t have the personality of Hux. It’s as if it were a secret twin, or maybe one of those aliens that can shapeshift.

This image is – it’s wrong. Hux knows what  _perfect appearance_ means: boots shining, hair combed and gelled, uniform without even the smallest wrinkle or stain, eyes looking straight ahead, unblinking, not showing any nervousness or insecurity, not showing anything but devotion to the cause.

On the picture his hair isn’t exactly unruly, but it’s not as perfectly neat as it usually is – as it should be. This is not the picture of Hux as he should look. Because Hux does not smile, or maybe he does, once or twice a year, but not like this: a little idle, a bit delighted,  _sweetly_. His eyes are never fond and unsettlingly soft with eyelashes that seem longer than his actual eyelashes – his fingers twitch, wanting to reach up and touch them to make sure, but he clenches his fists instead, nails digging into his palm.

Why are his shoulders so small? Yes, that’s how his shoulders actually are, and Ren knows that: Ren has caressed – mapped, examined, learned so he could draw it later, deceived Hux who has believed that Ren only wanted to make Hux feel good – his shoulders with his hands, pressed teasing, wet kisses all over them that felt so good Hux couldn’t swallow all his moans.

But his shoulders are too small: they are not the shoulders of a general. That’s why he has his shoulder pads and his greatcoat, surely Ren could have drawn him in his uniform, he should have drawn him in his uniform, that would have been the reasonable thing to do, every holo ever made of Hux shows him in his uniform, why the fuck would Ren do  _this_.

“You don’t like it,” Ren says. Hux doesn’t dare to look at him, not wanting to see the expression on his face. He doesn’t want to think about the look on his own face either.

“This doesn’t have colors. Why would you use this paper? The landscape was on something thicker and sturdier. I could tear this thin, useless paper into ribbons any moment.” How could it survive being touched by Ren’s huge, rough hands?

“It took me a while to realize that it’s easier to use pencil than paint when making portraits. I couldn’t show the color of your eyes or hair, which is a pity, but I only have black pencil. Is it too informal? This is how people are usually depicted in the place I’m from. Should I have drawn you with your hat and the emblem of the First Order in the background?”

 _Where the fuck are you from?_  Hux wonders, though he doesn’t ask: it’s forbidden to ask about Kylo Ren’s past and nobody in the First Order (except Snoke, probably) even knows his original name.

“I don’t smile like this, Ren.”

“We were playing dejarik, and we weren’t sure who would win until the end. When you won you said something smug, but you also said that you don’t remember the last time you had so much fun playing dejarik with anyone and then – you smiled. Exactly like that.”

Hux looks again at the picture, which is now trembling. He tenses the muscles in his hand to stop the trembling. The man on the paper smiles up at him. Hux supposes he doesn’t look like an unpleasant person. But he also doesn’t look like a general. If anyone found this…

“If you want to destroy it, go ahead. Tear it apart. Incinerate it. I won’t draw another picture of you, I promise.”

“Don’t show this to anyone,” Hux demands instead.

This startles a quick laugh out of Ren. “Do you think I want others to know I drew  _this_? It would ruin my reputation. And what would Snoke say! No, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Good,” Hux nods. He puts the paper down onto his table, gently, afraid it will be torn if he doesn’t treat it with enough care. “Come here.”

Ren tilts his head, his eyes clearly showing both his confusion and his relief, glad Hux isn’t upset about his picture anymore.

Hux takes his dominant hand, the one he uses to hold his lightsaber and his cup and his datapad, and the one that must have held the pencil too. Hux brings it closer to his face, bumping his nose against the palm, trying to find the scent of the pencil, but Ren’s skin doesn’t smell like anything. He can’t see any trace of the pencil on Ren’s skin either, only calluses and the old white scar on the back of his hand.

Maybe he really did look like that after that game of dejarik: that delighted smile, that sweet joy in his eyes. How would Hux know? He can’t see himself. Or maybe Ren imagined it, or it was there but Ren exaggerated it, made it more obvious. Artists do that all the time.

But it could be real, a quiet voice whispers somewhere in his mind.

Oh, Hux thinks, or a soft, weak, forgotten piece of his heart thinks. Everyone knows him as the impeccable general of the holos of his speeches and the posters, uniform and hair and everything perfectly neat, serious, unsmiling, not showing anything but devotion to the cause. But now he knows that someone in this galaxy exists who can make Hux smile like that, who can notice and then draw that smile – it shouldn't, but it still makes Hux glad.

He doesn’t even dare to tell these thoughts to Ren, his heart beating like a warning and an exhilarated poem at the same time. He looks up at Ren, still holding his hand, and he thinks the look in Ren’s brown eyes proves that he knows exactly what Hux is thinking now, somehow.


End file.
